Gemotions

The card sat in her hand, a crisp white rectangle against the backdrop of overflowing bills and junk mail. She clutched it, her knuckles bone-white. It was her birthday. She’d turned thirty-eight. She hadn’t had a single phone call, not even a text message. She tore open the envelope, her breath catching in her throat.

Inside, a simple message in elegant cursive: “Thinking of you.” No name. No clue. A small, involuntary sob escaped her. She’d spent the morning rehearsing what she would say to the cashier at the grocery store. "Happy birthday to me" would have to do. The card felt like a lifeline, a whisper of connection in the deafening silence of her apartment.

She reread the message, tracing the loops and swirls of the handwriting with her fingertip. Was it the florist? The therapist? Her ex-husband's mother? She needed to know. She needed to *matter*.